Because of the problematic connotations of “flaming,” the Olympic torch will no longer be lit at the opening ceremonies, but instead will be rigged to expectorate tobacco juice over the crowd.

Concerns over safety—and, more to the point, manliness—mean that goalie masks during hockey games may no longer consist solely of soothing mud packs and cucumber slices over the eyes. Fights on the ice must include the landing of actual punches, not just flailing slapping motions and hair-pulling.

The cross-country prancing and mincing events will be eliminated and replaced by stomping and interpretive stomping.

The disturbingly effeminate image of male figure skaters can be attributed largely to their wardrobe. However, this problem can be ameliorated with a few simple, tasteful modifications, including but not limited to: 1) requiring skates with mudflaps and underbody neon; 2) replacing matchy, sequin-spangled spandex costumes with cut-off shorts and sleeveless “wife beater” t-shirts studded with spent bullet casings; 3) sewing to the rear end of each competitor a large embroidered patch reading “Exit Only” with a comic-strip Calvin pissing on a pink triangle, which in turn is pissing on a Ford logo.

In order to reinforce and preserve traditional gender roles, only men will be allowed to “throw” curling stones. Women will, of course, handle the sweeping, just like at home, and also make sandwiches for the men at the end of each round. In deference to custom, curling matches will remain unwatched by anyone but straight Canadians.

Men’s singles competitors will no longer be permitted to skate to “It’s Raining Men” unless actual men are pushed from the rafters as part of the routine.

The biathlon will be renamed the heteroathlon. Men’s skiing events will take place under the rubric of “mascu-sliding.”

All promotional materials will make it perfectly clear that, contrary to reports from previous Olympics, the Nordic combined event will not consist of a “three way” among a charismatic trio of buff, blond, blue-eyed men named Lars, Sven, and Hjörvard.

The provocative visual impact of male speed skaters’ smooth, shiny crotch bulges will be reduced by making competitors stuff their jockstraps with Legos, for which purpose the bricks will be renamed “cock blocks.”

It has long been a subject of concern that the uncomfortably close “nuts to butts” contact fostered by traditional bobsled design practically ensures that even the most virile of sledders will emerge hopelessly and irredeemably man-crazy. Therefore, all bobsleds will now be configured with a running board, so that a nun armed with a ruler can strictly enforce a “six inches of daylight” rule in the midst of competition. The “six inches of daylight” rule must never be mentioned out loud, however, as the phrase “six inches” may prove too suggestive for weaker-willed athletes.

It’s “luge,” to rhyme with “huge,” not with “zhoosh.” In fact, any competitor found with zhoosh will be forced to wear beige, to rhyme with “page.” All beige. From Walmart.

Sounds of exertion and “victory” gestures are restricted to deep-throated grunting and fist-pumping. Prohibited: giggling; squealing; finger-snapping; voguing; tossing a sultry look backward over one’s shoulder; and rapid clapping while keeping the heels of the hands pressed together. Obscene gestures are acceptable as an expression of disapproval towards one’s opponents, but competitors must not under any circumstances purse their lips while slowly wagging their vertically extended index finger back and forth.

No French—athletes, fries, bread, toast, horns, doors, slicing of green beans, expelling cigarette smoke from the mouth while simultaneously inhaling it through the nose, kissing. No French. Except to fill out the bleachers during the broadcast of curling events, in which case they are forbidden from speaking to the straight Canadians.

Yeah, that’s me. Asshole of the bakery. The Antonin Scalia of bread and pastry. The Donald Trump of this flour-dusted, godforsaken shithole. You got a problem with that, glazed doughnut? Kiss my ass. You think I give a shit what you think, baguette? Fuck you, you French faggot.

Number-one asshole among baked goods, and proud of it. I even look like a sphincter. Like phyllo dough is such a big fucking deal, with all those layers. I’m such a huge fucking star you gotta cook me twice. Boil, then bake, then douse me in everything you got in your spice rack. That’s how I roll. You think that fuckface corn muffin is some kind of hot shit? More like lard-ass cupcake wannabe with a fake tan.

Right now you’re thinking, Oh yeah, this guy thinks his shit don’t stink. Well, guess what? It does stink. It stinks plenty. Like salt, garlic, onion, poppy seed, sesame, and caraway. I got it all. Or maybe you didn’t know what an “everything” bagel is, if you’re an idiot. Which you probably are.

Maybe you think I only get along with my own kind, that I got no problem with the other bagels. That just goes to show you don’t know fucking shit. Plain bagel? Please. [In mocking girly voice] “Ooh, ooh, I’m so smooth and golden brown and pret-ty, I don’t put out on the first date, I love kittens and pudding and not having sex, I’m a plaaaaaaaaaain bagel.” Raisin bagel? A raisin ain’t even a fruit. It’s a grape that couldn’t hack it. Pumpernickel bagel? Yeah, I guess, if you want a bagel that’ll steal your car. Egg bagel? What the fuck is that? It looks like a plain bagel that pissed itself. Spinach bagel? You have 14 flavors to choose from and you pick spinach? I hope your stomach tells you to go fuck yourself and busts through your gut like that nasty little fucker in Alien.

Don’t even fucking think about putting anything on me. Cream cheese? Keep that nasty toe jam to yourself. Don’t even come near me with lox. I get one whiff of that low-tide funk and someone’s gonna end up bleedin’ on the floor. Butter? You know what butter is for? Scones. Because scones are pathetic little turds. Watch this. [Throws fake punch at scone; scone flinches] See? [Punches scone hard on upper arm] [Scone: “Ow!”] [Everything bagel, to scone] Get lost, shithead. This is my show.

I own two vehicles. Guess what they are? Right. A Harley and a Hummer. Chrome truck nuts on the Hummer. Confederate flags on both. Know what that apple fritter over there drives? A used Prius with a “Life is Good” bumper sticker. Sounds like he’s the asshole, right? It’s lame jackoffs like that who give us hardcore assholes a bad name. I don’t just text while I’m driving, I eat corn on the cob and play sudoku at the same time. I cough in public without covering my hole. I lose DVDs from Netflix and claim they never showed up.

Crispy and seedy on the outside, all motherfucking stud inside. You better believe that underneath my tangy, circular awesomeness, I’m all eclair, if you catch my drift. See that cruller over there? Knocked her up. Nine months later she squeezes out twin doughnut holes. Hey, not my problem, right? Got shitfaced last Saturday and had an orgy with a whole rack of danish. Woke up two days later with some massive motherfucking hangover, smelling like Jägermeister and prunes. Messed around with a hot cross bun last year and ended up with a nasty rash. Didn’t slow me down one fucking bit. Ended up giving it to a macaroon. Sorry, baby, but I don’t wear a bakery tissue for nobody.

Well, dickheads, smell ya later. The retard clerk is about to put me in a bag with some blueberry bagels so I can make ’em all taste like shit.

“Honey bee populations have plummeted in the last half decade as worker bees have mysteriously flown off and never returned to the hives—a phenomenon now called Colony Collapse Disorder. Scientists are stumped.”—Breanna Draxler, Discovery (blog), April 30, 2013

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Formerly busy bees have lost their sense of purpose and now just play Farmville and eat Funyuns and wear sweatpants around the clock.

Bees have given up honey production to capitalize on the cupcake craze. Unfortunately, the demand for BB-sized cupcakes remains limited.

A drone strike, consisting of drones carrying wee picket signs and chanting anti-management slogans, throws the daily schedule of the colony into chaos. Worker bees strike in solidarity before realizing that the drones are lazy, worthless pieces of shit who do nothing but eat and screw all day.

The bees’ knees have been ruined from overdoing it on the Stairmaster. Hive activity is reduced to morning mall walks and complaining about teenagers in saggy jeans.

The bees’ buzz diminishes to almost nothing after they give up double shots of espresso and unfiltered Camels on doctor’s orders. Desperate to somehow make it through the day, bees turn to Red Bull, only to discover they lack the anatomy to open the can.

The queen stops mating and laying eggs. A week later she announces she’s a lesbeean, moves in with a dragonfly named Abigail, and takes up softball.

Hipster bees venture further and further from the hive in an endless search for ever-more-obscure blossoms. Many never return, instead taking up duct-tape handicrafts and/or the hammered dulcimer.

Impressionable, indiscreet bees are blackmailed after falling for “honey traps” set by a suspicious foreign government. Sexy enemy operatives are revealed to be hornets wearing bee masks and minuscule black-and-yellow-striped Spanx.

Bees are switching to stylish but less expensive IKEA hives made from laminated cardboard. When the hives begin to bow under the weight of a few extra books, the bees can’t make repairs, since they lost the little hex wrench that was included. The colony collapses.

Irish Sod Bread. Impoverished nineteenth-century Irish farmers, unable to afford all four letters of “soda,” were forced to make do with only the first three, using clumps of their front lawns as a leavening agent. While years of regular consumption of Irish sod bread inevitably turned one’s teeth green, it was often said that a woman who suspected her husband of infidelity need only look for telltale grass stains on his member.

The Wearing of the Greek. As the result of an unfortunate yet never-corrected typographical error, generations of Irishmen proudly proclaimed their heritage on St. Paddy’s day by affixing a resident of Crete or Athens to their lapels. The practice finally fell out of favor after an incident in which an overenthusiastic Dubliner doused his Greek in brandy, set him on fire, and shouted “O’Pa!,” mistaking the traditional flaming-cheese exclamation as the name of a clan from County Cork.

Sliverdance. Bored and embarrassed by the unsettling, convulsive leaping-in-place touted as “entertainment” by touring Irish dance companies, a group of rogue artists developed an exciting but short-lived choreographic spectacle in which bare-footed participants attemped to moonwalk across splintery, heavily weathered planks of plywood salvaged from demolished skateboard ramps. The last man standing was declared the winner and given a victory tweezing by volunteers from the audience.

The Pot at the End of the Rainbow. Politically radical but socially conscious leprechauns of the 1960s replaced the traditional pot of gold, a hated symbol of materialism, with a Band-Aid box full of “Kilkenny Kush,” a particularly potent strain of marijuana known for inducing strange, fantastic, multi-sensory hallucinations, including a Blarney Stone that danced the frug and reeked of b.o. and patchouli oil.

The Running of the Seans. Taking their cue from the acti0n-packed pre-bullfight custom of Pamplona, Spain, adrenaline-addicted Irish thrill-seekers allowed themselves to be chased through the streets of Belfast by a herd of fresh-faced, red-headed, similarly named males in kilts. Upon arrival at the stadium, a violent free-for-all would ensue among the participants, in the cause of establishing once and for all the primacy of “Sean” vs. “Shawn” vs. “Shaun.” Survivors would then repair to a nearby pub and link arms and sing songs of the old days and hoist pints of Guinness as they paid tender, tearful tribute to the “foine lads” whose skulls they just cracked open.

Boys Gone Wilde. The Emerald Isle’s gay population eagerly awaited this yearly memorial bacchanal honoring the great Irish writer, in which participants, clad only in low-rise briefs with a single lily tucked into the waistband, danced the night away to a Victorian techno beat, their arms above their heads, all the while exchanging witty epigrams and the occasional phone number. At midnight, revelers were treated to a stage show hosted by “Lady Windermere” (known to daytime colleagues as bank teller Kevin Herlihy), with prizes for the best drag impression of Dorian Gray’s picture. This much-beloved annual observance was finally discontinued when organizers realized that it was much more fun to repeat every weekend.

Driving the Snakes out of Ireland Yet Again. Though St. Patrick’s most famous feat became the stuff of legend, rising real estate prices on mainland Europe and a move toward reptile gentrification quickly led the banished snakes to repopulate Ireland’s trendiest neighborhoods and create an unprecedented demand for gritty industrial lofts with lots of exposed brick and “character.” When onerous humans-only restrictions at the local organic food co-op failed to discourage the snakes, one serpent-sick entrepreneur came up with a brilliant plan. Promising the snakes a “free gift” in exchange for attending a two-hour presentation on timeshares in Boca Raton, he instead put them on a charter ferry across the Irish Sea to Scotland. The Scots, for their part, found the snakes delightful, especially breaded, deep-fried, wrapped in paper, and sold with chips from sidewalk vendors. More adventurous but overly optimistic Scottish epicures failed, however, to make a mark with “snaggis.”

I gave my love a cherry that had no stone
I gave my love a chicken that had no bone
I told my love a story that had no end
I gave my love a baby with no cryin’.

How can there be a cherry that has no stone? (1) How can there be a chicken that has no bone? (2) How can there be a story that has no end? (3) How can there be a baby with no cryin’? (4)

FOOTNOTES

(1) “Let me get this straight. You took the $8.00 pint of organic cherries I was saving for my compote, sucked the pit out of each one, and then replaced the cherries in the refrigerator?”

“I like to suck on the pits. I’m trying to stop smoking.”

“Get out of my sight.”

(2) “Hmm. Well, I asked you to get me a Filet-O-Fish, and gave you enough money to get something for yourself, but the McNuggets are fine. It’s a 20-piece box, but there are only three left, so I guess you helped yourself on the way home. I also see that you got some honey mustard sauce, even though I go into anaphylactic shock if I get anywhere near bee products, which you might remember from driving me to the emergency room after I accidentally had some of that salad dressing last summer. Let me guess: you forgot napkins, too, didn’t you? [Silence] Yeah. I thought so.”

[Long pause]

“Are you going to eat those?”

(3) “This story makes no sense. I mean, we don’t know if Brandi was telling the truth to the blacksmith, or if Padmalochana was actually her long-lost twin, or if the parrot spilled the beans to the police, or if the archbishop was really willing to give it all up to become a rodeo clown. And couldn’t you have at least stopped at the end of a sentence? This story is just like your community college career and that half-restored 1978 Trans Am that’s been on cinder blocks in the backyard for three years. You never finish anything you start. So, if you really want to get me a present, take these newspapers out to the recycling bin and make sure they end up in it, and not blowing around all over the yard.”

(4) “He’s teething, and I was trying to watch Judge Judy, and I couldn’t hear myself think, so I dipped his binkie in bourbon and crushed half an Ambien into his applesauce. He went out like a light. I hope that was OK. You need me to babysit again tomorrow?”